Krauss stifled a yawn and looked irritated. Gohler frowned even more. What a disgusting excuse for an officer this man was. It was clear he didn’t really care about Hoffman or his family. He only wanted to dish off an uninteresting task given to him so that he could get back to the books.
“Look, Gohler.” The lieutenant straightened his collar. “I’ll let those comments pass because Hoffman was a friend of yours. But you’re going to write his wife a letter because Tiedemann said so. That’s the end of it.”
“Jawohl.”
“Here,” Krauss said as he fished a photograph out of his pocket. “Maybe this will smooth things over. Include this picture of her that Tiedemann found in Hoffman’s Soldbuch.”
The photo was a snapshot—of someone else.
“That’s not Sabine.”
“Who?” Krauss asked. He had returned to his perusal of the bookshelves.
“Sabine. This isn’t her. I don’t know who this is.”
“It was in his Soldbuch. That’s not his wife?”
“No, Herr Obersturmführer.”
The round-rimmed glasses framed an even frostier look from the small man. “Then I guess you shouldn’t include it after all.”
Gohler returned the glare. “Jawohl, Herr Obersturmführer.”
“Now,” Krauss replied, searching hesitantly around the room until his eyes fell on the large table. “You’ll excuse me, Sturmscharführer, but I need to get back to these maps. Someone has to have our route plotted back on the main roads.”
“Yes, sir, I saw that you were quite busy with that when I disturbed you.”
“Yes, I wa—thank you, Herr Gohler. Dismissed.”
As he left the room, Gohler looked down and examined the photograph. It was a portrait of a woman, a very pretty one at that, with blond hair and a slight smile that made her all the more sultry. Flipping the photo over revealed an inscription.
Johannes, I will love you forever. Greta.
Strange, Gohler thought.
Hoffmann had been like a brother. They went all the way back to guarding the concentration camps, back when Totenkopf was more about mopping up newly conquered lands than being a front-line fighting force. But in all that time, Gohler had never heard Hoffman talk about a girl named Greta. And for someone that frequently bragged about his exploits with women, such an omission was unusual.
17
Tiedemann’s stomach was still growling, so he and Eppler left the cellar and went back to the kitchen. There wasn’t much there. How did these French survive? His soldiers ate like locusts but Tiedemann had a hard time believing that there wasn’t more food stored away. All he could find was a small jar of fruit preserves in the corner of a cabinet. He ate it straight from the jar, using his finger as a spoon.
Springer had joined them and was standing atop the spiral staircase in the kitchen corner. Every few moments he would deliberately shift his weight and cause the structure to squeak and creak. At any moment it seemed the iron might pull right out of the mountings. It was a huge amount of noise regardless.
“Listen to that,” Springer said. “What a piece of crap. We should just pull it out and ship it back to Germany for scrap.”
Tiedemann examined the staircase as he dipped his finger into more preserves. It was filthy now, the mud from multiple jackboots having coated each of the steps.
“Look at all the mud,” he said.
Eppler cocked his head to the side. “It doesn’t have to be clean to melt it down, does it?”
Tiedemann shook his head. “No—that’s not what I’m saying. The steps are covered in footprints. Mud. It’s been constantly raining. Look at our boots. Yours, mine—they’re schmutzig. Dirty. You can see where we’ve been walking.”
“Ja,” Springer agreed. He pointed to his own boots. “Mine are far cleaner than yours since I’ve been inside all day.”
“So what does that mean?” Eppler asked.
“It means we can test our theory. If the murderer—Cartwright—entered the wine cellar from the outside, through the barrel cave, his shoes should be filthy like ours. Yes?”
Comprehension dawned on Springer’s face. “That would seem to line things up.”
Tiedemann looked expectantly at Springer. “Well?”
“Sir?”
“Go look!” Tiedemann ran his index finger around the bottom of the jar, casually scraping out the last of the fruit.
“Jawohl!”
Springer barely had time to move before Krauss barged into the kitchen. His face was ruddy and he was panting like a dog.
“Excuse me, Herr Hauptsturmführer. It’s all wrong, what he’s been saying. It took me a while but I’ve finally figured it out.”
“Figured out what, Krauss?”
“The flight path doesn’t make sense,” Krauss said. “Stuttgart is too far.”
The faces of three German officers returned identical blank looks.
“What are you babbling about?” Springer demanded. “What flight path?”
The small man’s chest kept heaving. God help them when he has to run across the battlefield, Tiedemann thought.
“Springer, I gave you a task. I suggest you get going.”
“Jawohl,” the blond lieutenant said. He disappeared down the staircase on the way to the wine cellar.
Tiedemann turned back to Krauss. “Begin again please. I’m not following.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Krauss took a few more moments to catch his breath. “There’s a huge hole in the Englishman’s story. He’s lying.”
“Lying about what?”
“About his bombing target, sir.” The little man was slowly regaining his ability to string more words together. “Cartwright said he was on a bomber headed to Stuttgart when he was shot down. Well, something was bothering me about what he said, only I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“I finally did, sir, while I was looking at the maps. Stuttgart is too far in the wrong direction—four hundred kilometers too far. Indeed, right now we’re further south than Stuttgart is, so it would make no sense for a bomber to have a flight path that veers this far south just to come back up around to its target.” Krauss made a giant V shape with his hand, indicating how far out of a straight line a plane would have to fly based on what Cartwright had claimed. “That’s assuming they could even carry that much fuel. But I simply didn’t realize it until it was right there in front of me on the maps.”
“You couldn’t read a map to get us through Dijon. What makes you think you can read one now?” Eppler cracked.
Tiedemann waved him to be silent. “Okay, Krauss, so he’s lying about his mission. What does it mean?”
“It means that the Englishman wasn’t on a bombing run. If he truly was shot down, he was on a flight that certainly wasn’t headed toward Germany.”
“Or maybe,” Eppler countered, “he’s telling the truth about Stuttgart, and he’s simply being smuggled to Spain so he can get back home.”
“No, Cartwright hasn’t been on the ground long enough to travel that far by foot.”
Eppler was clearly falling into the clique of all the other officers arraigned against Krauss. “If you think he’s a liar, why do you believe him when he says how many days ago he was shot down?”
“No, you’re not listening to me. My point is—”
“And why would you believe anything an enemy combatant might say?” Eppler continued. “If I were captured, I’d do everything I could to give bad information.”
The arguing continued, yet another sign of the work Tiedemann had yet to do in rebuilding discipline in his replacement officer corps. It was ridiculous that this could take place in front of a commanding officer. Did other Waffen SS divisions aside from Totenkopf have these issues? Tiedemann pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. The headache was coming back.
So, what did he know? What did he think? Tiedemann fought to review the facts in his head.
Tiedemann could easily guess that Hoffmann went to the
cellar for alcohol. Did he surprise someone, or was he followed? What else might be in the cellar that was worth the risk of discovery?
Hoffmann and the murder’s paths crossed in the cellar, where Hoffmann was killed presumably out of self-defense.
Why would self-defense be necessary?
The only unobtrusive way to access the cellar without the notice of the sentries was from the outside entrance. Tiedemann did not like the other theories.
Did Cartwright come in from the outside?
Was the Englishman truly lying about how he got to the Conti estate?
Tiedemann tuned out all the noise and thought hard.
There had to be more going on here than a simple murder in self-defense.
Footsteps echoed from the bottom of the spiral staircase. A moment later, Springer’s head popped up. His face looked bleak.
“Springer?”
The blond lieutenant shook his head with disappointment. “You won’t believe this, but the Englishman’s feet are the cleanest part of his body. No mud whatsoever.”
Tiedemann frowned. It was time for a new approach.
“Herr Springer,” he said quietly. “Go get Sturmscharführer Gohler.”
Springer blinked in surprise, but it only stopped him for an instant. “Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer,” he said before exiting the kitchen.
The two remaining lieutenants wisely remained silent. Tiedemann paced for a minute, then walked over to the back door and stared out into the courtyard at the rain. If only they had not detoured to this damnable place in the French countryside in the first place. That cursed rain.
Minutes later, Springer and Gohler both marched into the kitchen. Gohler stood at attention.
The mere presence of the tough sergeant changed the intensity in the room. Gohler had been in Totenkopf throughout its existence: working the concentration camps, the invasion of Poland and France, fighting while surrounded by Russians in the Demyansk pocket. He was the product of harsh, unyielding discipline, which is what Tiedemann desperately needed in his investigation right now.
The wicked, silvery scar that traced the sergeant’s jaw served as a visual reminder of how hard he was. So much the better.
“Sturmscharführer, I recall that you were an interrogator on the Eastern front,” Tiedemann said. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”
“Were you any good?”
“Yes, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”
“You don’t speak English, do you?”
“No, sir, just Russian.”
“Very well.” Tiedemann leaned next to the sergeant’s ear. The clues weren’t lining up, the clock was ticking… he needed all of this done. He felt his lip twisting. “I want you to get us answers from the Englishman downstairs. Krauss will translate, but you lead. If he is withholding information, get through the resistance. I want nothing but the absolute truth from our prisoner. I am tired of being behind schedule. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly.”
Krauss shifted uneasily from the side of the room.
“Herr Hauptsturmführer, permission to speak?”
Tiedemann turned his head. “Yes, Krauss.”
“Sir,” the small man said. His voice was uncertain. “The Englishman is not ein Untermensch. He is a prisoner of war. The rules of engagement must be followed—”
The icy gaze Tiedemann gave his lieutenant was all it took to end the conversation.
18
Cartwright guessed that it was evening based on how many guard changes there had been. Every few hours a new German came to relieve the soldier on duty, with nary so much as a glance in his direction. The entire episode made for an aching, chilly, hungry, and quite boring captivity.
A clutter of jackboots outside in the corridor signaled that that might be about to change.
A stream of Germans filed into the cellar, including two soldiers wielding machine pistols and the conniving little man Cartwright had nicknamed The Rat. Next was the German captain, followed by the blond-haired officer that had escorted Gabrielle out of the cellar earlier. Then another, deeply-tanned German whom Cartwright did not recognize entered and took a place quietly against the far wall.
Last was Gohler, the sergeant with the scar on his face. Cartwright’s stomach did involuntary flip flops. There had already been too much contact with that fellow. Literally.
For some reason, the captain took a long glance at Cartwright’s shoes. Then he barked instructions at the two infantrymen. They forcefully grabbed him by his armpits and hauled him clear of the wine racks until he was kneeling in the middle of the room.
This didn’t seem good.
The Rat was standing off to the right and had pulled out his little notebook once again. Cartwright thought he looked oddly uneasy. Why was that?
Without warning, pain shot through Cartwright’s side from his kidney. Cartwright jerked forward as his body tried to instinctively writhe away from the blow. The pain came again, wave after searing wave, heavy hands holding him down and making it impossible to wiggle away. Breath left his lungs. Light left his eyes. Cartwright’s ears were filled with a deafening void of sound. It went on and on for what seemed like forever.
Gradually a sense of reality returned to Cartwright’s brain. He was lying on his side in a pool of sweat and vomit. Not that he could see it—his eyes were still closed—but his nose knew what it smelled. Somehow Cartwright didn’t care. He was just thankful that the beating had ended.
“Setzen Sie ihn auf.”
The voice was vaguely familiar, yet somehow not. Not the captain’s.
Cartwright was pulled upright until he was kneeling again. Somehow he kept his balance and managed to not fall back over. He again became aware of his body’s existence: breathing, sweating, shaking. Hurting.
The strange voice spoke in German. “Fragen Sie ihn, wie er hierher gekommen ist?”
“How did you come to be at the Conti’s estate?” the Rat asked in English.
“I to—” Cartwright froze, the agony of trying to make words paralyzing him. He stopped, took a careful breath, composed himself. “I told you all that already.”
The Rat translated. Almost immediately another fist landed on Cartwright’s side. He crumpled to the ground on his side.
“We don’t believe you,” the Rat said, following the voice in German.
Cartwright forced his eyes open. Who was talking before the translation?
He found he couldn’t lift his head off the ground, which meant that all he saw was a pair of black boots pacing a few feet away. But gradually Cartwright tilted his eyes upward and Gohler came into focus. The sergeant had stripped to his undershirt and had steam coming off his shoulders. It dawned on Cartwright that there was very little blood on that shirt. All the punishment he was dishing out was focused on body work. They intended to leave his face alone. So he could speak.
“Do you want more? If so, keep lying. Otherwise tell us how you came to be here.”
“I said, I told you everything.”
“Er sagte, dass er uns alles bereits erklärte,” the Rat told Gohler.
A boot to the crotch. Cartwright doubled over until his knees were near his cheeks. His attempt to puke met with failure, as there was nothing left in his stomach.
Gohler paced, a shark toying with his prey. Again, he refrained from asking questions. The silence was terrifying.
Cartwright struggled to maintain his will. Why were they doing this to him? What had happened to the Geneva Convention? What would he have to tell them to get them to stop?
A new voice broke the silence. The German captain asked Gohler a question, conversing briefly before finally giving more instructions to the Rat.
The Rat nodded, then cleared his throat almost reluctantly. “You see, Herr Cartwright, we know you weren’t shot down from a bombing mission over Stuttgart. We’re too far for that to be your target. No bomber has that sort of fuel capacity.
“Add to that the
fact that we’ve spent all day interrogating the Conti family, and you should know that we have a quite a fair idea of what’s happened here. We know what your involvement is. Make things easy on yourself and give us what we want. We want to hear it from you. Simply tell us what you’re really doing here.”
Cartwright looked up at the bespectacled translator. Was The Rat lying? Cartwright sure hoped so—particularly about the Contis giving up too much information. But until he was sure, it was irrelevant whether or not the Germans had managed to piece things together. All he knew was that if he changed his story now he was a dead man. And the Contis would be dead along with him.
“I’m telling you the truth,” he rasped. “We were headed to Stuttgart. We never quite got there… maybe our pilot got lost, I don’t know. All I know is that it was the middle of the night and we were intercepted by fighters. It was dark, we got shot up, and I bailed out. That’s all I can tell you because that’s all that happened.”
Cartwright stole a glance at Gohler. The sergeant was slowly turning red as he listened to the translation. He obviously was not convinced. Then, as if suddenly remembering where he might have misplaced a long-lost item, Gohler turned briskly away and walked over to his pack against the wall. He quickly rummaged through his belongings and turned around holding a knife that seemed like it was a good twelve inches long. The German studiously examined the point of the blade as he crept back to Cartwright’s huddled form.
Cartwright snapped frantically at The Rat. “What’s all this business, you Kraut bastard? I’m a prisoner of war. You can’t do this!”
The Rat blinked uneasily. But instead of saying anything he just turned his head away, as if a doctor was about to put a needle in a vein and watching might make him nauseous.
Gohler directed the two soldiers to flip Cartwright over and hold his back down against the ground. A genuine panic seized the Englishman at the same time as did the Nazis’ gloved hands.
“What are you going to do?”
No reply.
He looked again to The Rat. The German was not making eye contact.
The Hazards of War Page 13
